


And off he did gyre and gimble

by CravenWyvern



Series: Darkest Descent into Drabbles [1]
Category: Amnesia: The Dark Descent
Genre: Agrippa needs to be appreciated more, Drabble, Gen, No Plot/Plotless, Telepathy, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 03:13:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16054280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: Sometimes the voice was his, raising a hand to find his own lips moving.Other times, it was someone else he heard.





	And off he did gyre and gimble

**Author's Note:**

> Agrippa seemed like a pretty happy go lucky fella if you ask me. "Off with my head!", anyone?
> 
> (Who even says something like that, Daniel is traumatized enough, he finally finds a semi normal person turned friend and all Agippa asks of him is to listen to him ramble and then cut off his head to toss into a portal to another world. Who does that)

‘ _Twas brillig and the slithy toves,_  
_Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:_  
_All mimsy were the borogroves,_  
_And the mome raths outgrabe.’_  


Daniel stopped, wavered on his unsteady feet, and tilted his head to listen. The lantern was in hand, but underneath the stream of cool light that was being fed from up above to, somehow, all the way down here, it was enough to keep the darkness and its infernal baying back. Even with the prisons chill and stagnated, almost icy rotten air, the low sounds from further in a testament, for a moment it seemed rather quiet. 

It left a horrible foreboding in his chest, the feeling of being watched, of a patience not his own and far, far from human, but the new voice rang out once more. 

_‘Beware the Jabberwock, my son!_  
_The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!_  
_Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun_  
_The frumious Bander...snatch…?’_  


It dwindled at the end, as if the speaker was mumbling the lines, trying to remember the words, though Daniel had no clue on what, exactly, was being said in the first place. It almost sounded as if in song, tone and pitch, and whoever it was spoke clearly, strongly, and seemingly very distracted.

There was a gust of sound overhead, him turning his head up to look to the light, the way it blinded him for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut and then blinking rapidly, the feeling both too new and too familiar, and then the breeze flung up dust all about him, clouds of dirt and rot that made him wrinkle his nose and almost sneeze. Even so far down as he was, or at least he thought he was, somehow the air still seemed fresh, almost rejuvenating if not for how it bit through his thin clothes and made goosebumps ride up on his arms, the age old dust of this place whirled about lazily.

 _‘...He took his vorpal sword in hand;_  
_Long time the manxome foe he sought-_  
_So rested he by the Tumtum tree_  
_And stood awhile in thought!’_  


Daniel could feel himself getting drowsy, just by the act of listening, just by the brief moment of false calm, of standing still on his feet. There had been something, back far behind him, a foul breath and whimpering, almost sniffling gurgles, and in his blind panic he had ran away, stumbling through halls and tripping down stairs, the corridors long and narrow and so, so very dark, and now he had no idea where he even was.

Wandering, trying to figure it all out, was ever so tiring, and his legs were getting sore. The last time he had given himself a chance for a break had been…

Back in the front hall, he decided, before he had fully finished the chemical concoction that would eat away at the strings and living, almost breathing flesh blocking his way. Sometimes, if he let himself think about it for too long, he'd remember the feeling of it, of the warmth, the almost heartbeat ingrained into his fingertips. 

Sometimes said living flesh throbbed, pulsed, and he swore he's felt its watch, felt its teeth and tongue when he had stumbled, brushed too closely by. The red marks underneath his clothing were still raw and itchy, like a rash, and Daniel still did not know how the lashing had taken off some of his hide but not at all damaged his meager clothing. Razor claws and sopping wet teeth have done their damage, taken fabric off his back each time, but the breathing flesh only wanted to be close to his own, hot and vulgar and so, so very painful.

The vile stuff in glass bottles he had taken to consuming were the only things keeping him on his feet, and now he felt so god awfully tired. Perhaps it was wearing thin and he should find more.

Just the thought, of his near empty pockets and its bitter taste, the after flavor that made him taste bile in the back of his throat and left a chemical, gagging film on his tongue, was enough to make his hands start to tremble. Disgusting it may be, but imbibing in the stuff helped numb the pain, helped distract him, softened the blow each and every time, a soothing moment.

There wasn't a lot around to wrap up his injuries, and even though he could stop blood flow this laudanum, as it was called on the old, faded labels, was what allowed him to keep moving.

And now it was fading and his limbs hurt, the very core in his chest aching, and that clear, all too crystal clear voice was almost too lovely even in its most certainly mad rambling.

‘ _And, as in uffish thought he stood,_  
_The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,_  
_Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,_  
_And burbled as it came!’_  


There was a accent there, Daniel thought drowsily to himself, swaying on his tired, sore and much abused feet. He picked up on it, this cheerful tune almost, and the words he knew not of and the meaning as well but it was easy enough to tell-

The voice was not his.

Daniel did, however, take a moment to raise his shivering, cold fingers to his chapped lips, to brush over his hollow face with hooded, distracted eyes, just to make sure. Sometimes…

Sometimes he could swear that he had been the one talking in the first place.

 _‘One, two! One, two! And through and through_  
_The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!_  
_He left it dead, and with its head_  
_He went galumphing back!’_  


The words continued, voice strong and upbeat, so different from what his ears would grace him on a daily basis. Almost sweet, in a way, and for a very rare moment he felt a minor semblance of calm leisure, imagining what he could be doing right now instead of being so cold and alone, surrounded by abominations down here.

What he wouldn't do for a bed, Daniel decided. He'd probably murder a man, freely, if he was given a nice cot in exchange, and his legs grew even more sore at the thought of real, true rest.

He just felt ever so very tired, trekking around in this shocked, confused stupor, and the things haunting this place helped little, if at all. Most of them just wanted to take a chunk out of him, after all!

And he still was wondering if that was their intentions. They always sounded so mournful, even when he had to hide behind rocks and boulders, hands pressed to his eyes or his ears to try and keep the dark wave back, and in the beginning he had been rather sympathetic.

Now, however, with marks across his chest, snicked against the dip of his throat, more pricking his back and all up and down his arms, the almost detachment of each limb such a trauma to still haunt him, Daniel was starting to feel as if he had very little sympathy left.

 _‘And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?_  
_Come to my arms, my beamish boy!_  
_O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!_  
_He chortled in his joy!’_  


For a second Daniel brightened at the laughter in the voice, in its echoes, its completely mad happiness, in this cold, dark place. Something about hearing such things, such things he knew the words of yet felt so nervously unfamiliar with, made life feel a bit better.

He reached down to tap his unlit lantern, a reminder that it was still there, another cold breeze to stir a dust cloud up about his feet, the cold upstairs filtering down to him, individually, something almost enjoyed. If he closed his eyes, really concentrated, maybe he could pretend he was somewhere else, somewhere without rock and stone and blood curdling screams, both foreign and his own.

Some place clean and open and safe.

And then there was a noise, a clatter, back, far back, echoed out behind him, and Daniel immediately stiffened, eyes snapping open as he skittered to press his back to the stone cobbled wall, already panting at the surprise, the total feeling of being caught off guard. 

There would have been silence, or perhaps the faint, but distinct sound, of something besides himself down here wandering about, or perhaps doing their duties, but then the voice rang out, as if having taken a moment to puff in a breath of air and now sliding in for a strong, loud finish.

‘ _Twas brillig, and the slithy toves_  
_Did gyre and gimble in the wabe,_  
_all mimsy were the Borogoves._  
_And the mome raths outgrabe!’_  


This faint light was not safe anymore, he knew that, and with that knowledge Daniel started to fiddle with his lantern, cold hands shaking as he licked his chapped lips, wishing for more of that bitter tonic. It would help, it would help with the pain, the aches and sores, and that nervous thrumming in his chest, the stuttered pounding of his own heart. There was a blunt discomfort behind his eyes, steadily growing as he strained his ears, tried with all his might to listen, to try and catch the sound of something monstrous coming upon him.

But all he could hear was the voice, that light, far too cheery voice, with its lilting accent and completely mad babbling.

_‘...Goodness, look at that. Weyer would be proud; it has taken centuries for me to memorize all that nonsense!’_

By now Daniel could swear he heard snuffling, the slow, plodding footsteps, a broken gait, and he heaved in a steadying breath, hurriedly pushing the distraction away as quickly as possible. There was no more time for him to listen, to this voice that had no echo but must have certainly come from farther below, or in some abandoned, caved in section of the prison. He felt sorry, to not listen to what was probably a dying mans ramblings, last words, but if he didn't keep moving then he'd be in the same position, or at least something somewhat similar.

_‘It is too bad that it is so far ahead of me now. Perhaps Weyer can get a hold on that book for me next we meet…’_

The voice trailed off, became muffled as Daniel lit his lantern and took those first unsteady steps into the darkness, leaving that spot of calm behind. It took only a moment for the silence to set in, for the crawling, encompassing darkness to wither around him, as if alive like that crimson flesh, a slow heartbeat beneath his fingertips.

He let himself have a moment where he mourned whoever that was, or who had been. With how everything was so set up about him, Daniel did not believe even for an instant he'd hear that voice again, especially with his trek taking him ever downwards.

He'd have whispered a faint farewell, at least something to leave behind to the empty air, but Daniel has long forgotten how. And the darkness, the blood soaked stones under his feet and the rotten cold, called for him to continue.

Daniel had no time to mourn a stranger, and with that last parting thought, off he went.

**Author's Note:**

> I can imagine Agrippa quoting Alice in Wonderland all the time for some reason, so let's just say the reason he knows of stories way ahead of his time is because Weyer told him all about that stuff.


End file.
